Songs of Us
by Cerih
Summary: Series of short stories inspired by various songs. Not in any particular order, chronologically or otherwise. Peter/Olivia, unless otherwise stated.
1. Beautiful Trouble

Disclaimer: I own neither Fringe nor the song.

Author's note: The song that inspired this fic is Take That's Ain't No Sense In Love.

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The first time Peter Bishop laid eyes on Special Agent Olivia Dunham, he thought she was beautiful. There was an almost ethereal quality to her beauty, in the way that she seemed to see him and everything else while staying detached from it all. Then she told him who she was and he realised that she was Trouble with a capital T. In hindsight, he should have realised that she was bad news, for her outfit alone should have sent alarm bells ringing in her head. When she begged him to go with her back to America, something about her elicited compassion, although he quickly buried it in his mind and sternly walked away. Not that he got very far before she played her trump card and he could almost feel shackles closing around his limbs. Cursing under his breath softly, he followed her out of the hotel and into the midday heat.

Peter's eyebrows rose when he saw the private plane that was to transport him back to the country of his birth. "Either the US government is desperate for my father, or you have some serious connections."

Olivia only shrugged nonchalantly as she boarded the plane and strapped herself to one of the luxurious leather seats. She picked up a casefile from a stack nearby and started to read, completely ignoring him. Peter found this slightly amusing, but was not in the least bit upset by it, as it gave him a great opportunity to study the woman before him. Her hair was tied up, accentuating her cheekbones, and the light made the blonde strands gleam. He frowned at the cut on her forehead and the dark circles under her eyes. She was tall and thin, but with enough curves to make her feminine, even in the military-style clothes she was currently wearing. When she glanced up and caught him staring, he saw that her eyes were a curious combination of green and brown and the fascination from this made him want to keep looking deep into them. Olivia, however, raised an eyebrow and returned her attention to the file on her lap.

"Are you not aware that staring is impolite?" She asked without looking up.

"Are you not aware that it is impolite to drag a person half way across the globe to visit a mental health institute?" He quickly countered. He was rewarded with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth and he felt a flare of pleasure at this.

"Touché," she conceded.

"So I feel like I'm at a disadvantage here," Peter continued the conversation, "since you've read my file and yet I know nothing about you." Olivia finally looked up, regarding him thoughtfully.

"Not much to tell, really," she said eventually," I work for the FBI, having moved over from the Marines. I live and work in Boston. My boss in the current case doesn't like me much." She smiled ruefully as she said the last bit.

"That can't be it." Peter pushed.

"I suppose I work too much." She shrugged.

"In that case, I'll just have to fill in the blanks by myself."

"Is that so?" Olivia looked at him, intrigued.

"I bet I can guess what your favourite drink is, aside from coffee of course." Peter smiled confidently.

"Go on."

"Let's see," Peter's eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded her thoughtfully. "Champagne is too insubstantial. Liqueurs are too sweet. Rum and Coke is not right either, because you like to get your caffeine from coffee. I expect you enjoy a glass of red wine every now and then, but it's not your favourite." Olivia's amused smile gradually showed hints of surprise as he talked and he knew instinctively that he was right.

"Scotch on the rocks," he declared and her eyes widened. "It's straight to the point and packs a punch. I can see why you like it."

"Not bad," she had to admit and he grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "How did you know?" She could not resist asking.

"People often prefer drinks that remind them of themselves," Peter shrugged, "and you've certainly made an impression."

Olivia flushed a little, as much from his words as from the hint of darkness she saw in his eyes. She got up from her seat under the pretence of putting away the files. A couple of photos slid out of the folder and fluttered on the floor, partially under Peter's seat. He rose to pick them up and handed them back to Olivia, their fingers briefly touching. Olivia blushed a little more at the contact, but he seemed not to notice as he continued past her towards the toilet. She took advantage of her momentary solitude and found the satellite phone, dialling Charlie's number to get an update on John.

Later, when Olivia had somehow managed to blackmail him into not only speaking to his father but also releasing him from the asylum, Peter is furious with her. Part of it is because of having to deal with his father after all the years of absence, but he knows that part of it has nothing to do with Walter Bishop and his newly discovered past. Part of his anger is about Olivia and directed towards himself. He can see she is in love with her partner, this John Scott who is rapidly becoming translucent. Olivia is in love and he cannot help feeling a little jealous. In the quiet moments in the plane, something passed between them, a connection or a current of electricity when their hands touched fleetingly. He can see how much her partner means to her and yet he cannot help himself from pushing her, challenging her, and feeling a jolt of triumph every time she rises to the challenge. They spar verbally, his eyes dancing with dark promises, but she holds his gaze coolly, almost untouched by the game he is playing. Almost, for he can see a hint of something unspoken in her eyes and he feels a small shiver run down his spine. Peter Bishop does not need anyone, but here is a woman he wants more with every moment they spend together.

After she risks her life in the tank, Olivia sits on a plastic chair, dressed only in her wet underwear and a spare white lab coat that Astrid has managed to find for her. She is still recovering from her experience in the tank and the drugs coursing through her veins, waiting for her strength to return so that she can head out to get a picture made of the man whom she saw in John's mind. Peter approaches and hands her a fresh cup of coffee. He has forgiven her deception, still impressed that she had managed to con him into going with her, and he sits down next to her.

"Thanks," she nods and takes a sip of the hot, strong liquid. She immediately feels better.

"I'm glad you're okay," he smiled, a glint of humour in his eyes, "although I do think you should be wearing a warning sign."

"Saying what?" She frowns, confused.

"Beautiful trouble." She blushes furiously and he walks away, a deep masculine laugh echoing in the otherwise quiet lab.


	2. Rest Calm

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe or the song.

Author's note: Takes place during early season 3, when Olivia is in the alternate reality. The song this time is Nightwish's Rest Calm, which by the way is awesome.

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He came to her every night. Olivia crawled into bed after each day with the Fringe division, limbs heavy with exhaustion, but sleep would always elude her until he had visited her. She would lie wide awake, staring at the dark ceiling above her, and then he would be there. He was always dressed in black, his chin covered in short stubble and his eyes warm with affection. He was so familiar, so Peter that her heart filled with longing for him, even if she was not entirely convinced that he was real. She thought it was a good thing that Frank was in Texas though, since she was having conversations with someone who was most likely a figment of her deranged imagination.

He sat down, as usual, on the edge of her bed and so she scooted up until she was leaning against the headboard. She switched on the bedside lamp, so that she could see him properly, committing every aspect of his face to memory, just in case he did not return the following night. The bed dipped as he sat down and he felt reassuringly solid against her side. He smiled at her and she blushed a little, suddenly self-conscious about the white tank top she was wearing to bed.

"Who is Astrid?" Peter asked quietly, jumping straight into a line of questioning that had become a nightly habit for them.

"Agent Farnsworth works for the Fringe division," Olivia replied quickly, "she is a genius with her computer and handles all the statistical data within the division."

"No," Peter shook his head. "Who is the Astrid you really know?"

"I don't remember," Olivia frowned.

"You said Astrid here never seems to smile," Peter spoke, gently coaxing Olivia's thoughts towards the right memories. "So think about her smile? Can you remember Astrid who smiles?"

"Astrid works for the Fringe division," Olivia repeated, her brow furrowed. "She is good with computers and just about everything else. Someone keeps getting her name wrong and I think that makes her smile." The last bit was said with a great deal of hesitation.

"That's right," Peter nodded encouragingly. "Walter keeps calling her all manner of names, and yet he can always remember her surname. Now, do you remember who Walter Bishop is?"

"He is the Secretary of Defence, based on the Liberty Island," Olivia spoke slowly, already knowing that this was not the answer Peter was looking for, which made her dig deeper into her hazy memories. "He held me a prisoner and did experiments on me." Peter's eyes darkened with anger at her words, but he did not steer away from his questioning.

"Can you remember a different Walter Bishop?"

Olivia shook her head, which was beginning to ache from the effort of trying to remember all these half-buried memories that seemed utterly alien and so very right at the same time. She hated letting Peter down, but she simply could not recall anything further.

"All the memories are just sleeping within your consciousness," Peter assured her. "You have to find them so that you can go home. Does food in connection with Walter remind you of anything?" This stirred something within her.

"Walter hates butterscotch pudding, but likes ginger ale and strawberry milkshakes." Peter nodded for her to continue. "He has a lab, where he cuts up corpses and cooks his own drugs. And he has a cow in the lab." The last bit of information made her frown, as it seemed utterly illogical to have a cow in a basement laboratory. She yawned, the mental effort making her sleepy.

"One last question, Olivia," Peter said, his hand finding hers and squeezing it gently. "Who am I?"

"You are Peter Bishop, the only son of Mr Secretary and Elizabeth Bishop. You were kidnapped from your home in 1985." Peter nearly interrupted her, but she lifted her eyes to his and the certainty in them kept him silent. "Walter took you after his own son died and now you both work with the Fringe division."

"Anything else?" Peter asked.

"I'm in love with you." This made him smile.

Olivia slid down on the bed until she was lying down, fatigue threatening to overwhelm her. As she felt sleep tugging at the edges of her consciousness, she felt Peter lean forward and gently brush his lips against her forehead. He then turned his head slightly and with his warm breath sending tantalising shivers down her spine whispered in her ear:

"Rest calm, Olivia, and remember me."


	3. White Tulips

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe or the song.

Author's note: The song this time is Once Upon A December from Anastasia. Spoilers for Subject 13, although I imagine this taking place during the night after 6B. This is short by my standards, but there is something about it that makes me love it. Writing this required almost no effort, it just flowed out of me. I wish that happened more often.

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Peter dreams of a field of white tulips and a little girl with great depth of sadness in her eyes. Her long blond hair is loose, partially obscuring the bruise around her right eye. The subcutaneous bleed marring her flawless skin angers him, especially as he had a chilling suspicion that this is not the first time she bears such a mark. The girl's position is defensive, like she had turned into herself to protect herself from the horrors of the outside world. The landscape around them seems to reflect this and everything is obscured by mist, cocooning them into a private little space. The field is eerily silent. There is something familiar about the girl, something eluding him on the edge of his memory. His heart seems to whisper '_I know you, I have always known you_'. The certainty is fleeting and yet he does not doubt it.

He is sitting next to the girl, their eyes level and he suddenly realises he is a boy, a younger version of himself. His heart is heavy with some dark grief of his own, but the hurt is soothed by the serenity of the girl by his side. Although she carries her own burden of sadness and fear, her eyes are calm and a little curious when she looks at him. She makes him feel safe, although he cannot understand why he should feel anything but safe. At the same time, he has an overwhelming urge to protect her, to shield her from the sorrow of life. Part of him knows that life will not be kind to her and he desperately wants to change that.

The realisation flashes through him like a bolt of lighting; he loves her. He has been in love with her since the moment their eyes first met, even though he was too young to even fully grasp the concept of love. Somehow he lost her and he wonders now whether he would be able to find her again after all these years. There is something he ought to remember, something very important, but it flits on the edge of his consciousness, just out of his reach.

What is her name? He is certain he knows, has heard it before, but he cannot find it in the recesses of his mind. It is something familiar, something fitting and that alone makes him strain with effort to remember. In his heart he knows the name of this girl with soulful eyes and long blond hair and his mind yearns to recall the secrets his heart keeps. This little girl is so very important somehow, although in the back of his mind he sees another figure, a tall woman with the same green eyes. Who is she?

It begins to snow and each flake is like brush of cool feather against his cheek, focusing his thoughts away from the name eluding him. The flurries of falling flakes thicken, creating a silent, silvery storm around them. For a moment he thinks he sees two insubstantial horses prance through the storm and he places his palms against the ground to steady himself. The ground feels oddly warm and when he looks at his hands, they are black with soot. The girl did this, he knows with strange certainty. But how could a little girl create fire and snow?

The girl gets up, ready to go back, although he does not know where 'back' is. She smiles at the snow and spins around, her hair floating around her. He thinks she looks like a dancer, each step graceful despite her outdoor clothes. He wants to take her hand and join her, but a curious shyness keeps him rooted to the spot. He enjoys watching her simple joy and there is familiarity in the act, as if he has spent hours upon hours watching her. That, of course, is ridiculous, as this is only the second time he has met her. But there yet again is the feeling that he is missing something important, some little detail that will make sense of all of this.

The girl starts walking and he knows they are headed back to the day-care centre, a building full of colourful rooms, where his father works. The thought of his father makes him frown, as if something is wrong there. But the feeling dissipates when he hears Walter Bishop's voice from a great distance away and finally he _knows_.

"Beguiling Olivia Dunham beguiles."

He knows that this is not a dream, but a memory, and then he is falling, the snowy landscape and the blond girl fading a way as the memory fragments, leaving him spinning in the darkness. He startles awake with enough force to sit up on the bed.

"Olivia," he whispers, turning to look at the woman curled up next to him on his bed, her blond hair like strands of moonlight against her pale skin. Lying back down, he gathers her into his arms and settles down to relive the memories that have awaken within him.


	4. Solace

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe or the song.

Author's note: Slight spoilers for Bad Dreams. The song that inspired this is Sarah McLachlan's Angel.

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Despite his exhaustion, Peter could not sleep. He lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling, listening to Walter mumbling chemical formulae in his sleep in the other room, his thoughts as dark as the cold hotel room around him. Try as he might, he could not banish from his mind the image of Olivia writhing and undulating on the lab table while she was sharing Nick Lane's dream. He had felt like he was invading her privacy just by being there, but he had not been able to tear his gaze away from the strangely erotic display before him. He had known already then that the memory of her would haunt him for many nights to come.

When Walter had told him to touch Olivia, to calm her down, he had nearly recoiled. She liked to maintain her personal space, much to his annoyance in general, and he was not comfortable touching her when she could not move away. Even more so, touching her seemed too personal, too intimate to do in front of Walter and Astrid. He had wanted to ask them to move away, to give them some privacy, but of course they would never agree, especially since Walter was busy keeping Olivia under hypnosis. Part of him, however, had been interested to see if he was able to calm her, and so he had reached out with his hand. The effect had been immediate and she settled down, breathing more easily. He had been surprised, not just by her reaction but by his urge to maintain their physical contact longer than was necessary for the current experiment. He wanted…

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt when his phone, which he had set on the coffee table by the sofa, suddenly lit up. He did not have to glance at the screen when he picked it up, as only one person would call him at 2am. He fervently hoped that it was not about a new case, as he was rather hoping he would get some sleep at some point.

"Olivia," his voice was hoarse from lack of sleep.

"Peter," his name was uttered slightly louder than a whisper, her voice thick with many emotions.

"Olivia, what's wrong?" He frowned at her tone, immediately concerned about her.

"I'm afraid to go to sleep." Even over the phone, an admission like that could not have been easy for her.

"I'll be there in 10 minutes."

Peter hastily pulled on his jeans, socks and shoes. He scribbled a note to Walter and left it leaning against a peanut butter jar on the counter, hoping that his father would be perceptive enough to spot it should he wake up before Peter returned. He grabbed his keys and a sweater on his way out.

The streets of Boston were quiet, as was to be expected at such a late hour. Peter drove fast, but not recklessly, but he still had time to dwell on the phone call and Olivia's words. He had spent a long time hoping that she would learn to trust him and waiting for her to reach out. Now that she had done so, his mind was filled with doubt. Not doubts about her, for he gladly risked his life for her, but about himself. He worried that he would disappoint her, that one day she would find out all the things that he lacked. The FBI may not have a secret file on him after all, but that did not mean that he had not spent years lying through his teeth and running from anything that might have mattered to him. Until now, when she turned out to be the one thing he could not walk away from.

When he got to her apartment, he saw that it was dark save for one solitary light shining softly between the curtains. He walked to her door, suddenly nervous, and she opened the door before he had a chance to knock, beckoning him in. She was wearing a white tank top and light blue pyjama bottoms and her long hair was down, framing her pale face. She looked exhausted, the circles under her eyes were almost black and she seemed to be swaying a little as she watched him enter her home.

He opened his mouth to softly say her name, but her finger on his lips stopped him before he could make a sound. She shook her head and he nodded in understanding. No words were needed for him to know what she needed. He ran his hands up her bare arms and she shivered, leaning into the contact. They stood like that for a moment, with him rubbing her arms gently, and then she looked up at him. In her eyes he saw hesitation, fear, fatigue and desperation. She was showing herself to him just as he was, utterly vulnerable in that moment that they shared. She was seeking calm and her solace with him and there was no way he could ever deny her wish. She seemed to read all that from his eyes, for she nodded and took his hand, leading him to her bedroom.

She watched as he undressed, leaving only his boxers on. She had seen him in a similar state of undress before, thanks to the times when she had woken them up at ungodly hours because of another case, but as he pulled his t-shirt over his head he could not help feel a little self-conscious. There was nothing sexual about the situation, but it was intimate and he had less experience with intimacy. He knew that in different circumstances having her eyes roam over his exposed skin as he straightened and faced her would most certainly excite him, but that was not what this night was about. He met her eyes to check that she still wanted to go ahead with this and she nodded again.

Without further ado, he walked to her bed and slipped between the cool sheets, settling near the middle. The bed showed signs of her having tossed and turned for a while before her resolve had crumbled and she had called him. He smoothed the covers with his hand and then held them open for her. She approached cautiously, wariness in her eyes, and lay down next to him. He rolled over to his side so that he was facing her and watched her silently, their faces mere inches apart. He could easily have kissed her then, but instead he was content to just lose himself in her eyes. After a while he broke eye contact to switch the bedside lamp off. He resumed his position facing her and gently raised his arm to trace the contours of face with his fingers. He both felt and heard her sigh of relief, as she relaxed into his touch.

He rolled onto his back and pulled her close, eager to maintain the physical contact. She rested her head on his shoulder and moulded her body against the side of his. One of her arms snaked around his torso, all of his nerve endings lighting up at her soft touch on his bare skin. Doing his best to ignore that and her leg resting on his, he wrapped one arm around her back and used the other to resume stroking her face. Her breathing soon evened out while Peter moved to run his fingers through the silky strands of her blonde hair. He wanted to stay awake, wanting to savour the closeness and her scent around him, but her touch offered him as much comfort as his did to her. Peter followed Olivia to peaceful sleep, each having found solace in one another's arms.


	5. Shards of Glass

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe or the song.

Author's note: This one is both Olivia/John and Olivia/Peter. The song is Evanescence's My Immortal.

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"'Livia"

Her name spoken in a low, sensual voice made her jump and a glass of water she had been holding slipped through her unresponsive fingers. It shattered on the kitchen floor, water and glass spilling everywhere. With a weary, irritated sigh she bent down and started picking up the largest pieces, deliberately ignoring the man standing behind her. His presence distracted her enough, however, that a shard of glass sunk into her finger like a hot knife through butter.

"Damn it," she cursed softly under her breath, watching as blood welled in the wound.

She picked her way carefully to the sink and pulled from the cupboard underneath it a plastic container full of broken crockery. Over the past weeks she had dropped wine glasses, coffee mugs, cereal bowls, dinner plates and numerous glasses. Each breakage had been precipitated by her name uttered by familiar lips, in a voice that wrenched her heart and made her hands lose any semblance of control. Soon she would need to go shopping for more glassware, but she was reluctant to do so, knowing that sooner or later she would only end up breaking whatever she bought.

Now she watched the jumble of painted and iridescent shards and wondered if her sanity did not splinter a little every time she broke something. Blood was dripping from her finger, each drop shockingly red against the fragments of her life. She gritted her teeth, refusing to allow the tears welling in her eyes to fall. She would not cry for him, not this time. With a sigh, she bent down to pick up more of the broken glass.

"'Livia," he spoke her name again, his tone demanding her attention even though he tried to sound soothing. She squeezed her eyes shut and balled her hands into fists, oblivious to the shards of glass sinking into her palms.

"What?" she snapped, whipping around to finally face John. "What do you still want from me? You're dead, why do you have to linger here? Why don't you just go?"

"I need to know that you're okay, Liv," he sounded hurt at her angry words.

"Well I'm not okay," she sighed, her anger deflating into familiar grief that she had been nursing for what seemed like forever. "You betrayed the Bureau and you betrayed me. I gave you all of myself and it turns out I didn't even know who you were. I don't think I'll ever be okay again." She turned away from him and resumed clearing the floor.

"'Livia," he tried for the third time, sounding pained at her harsh words.

"Turns out I was alone the whole time I was with you," she whispered over her shoulder, "so leave me alone now. Please."

John opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Within a heartbeat, Olivia was alone in her apartment once more. She was tempted to ignore whoever what at the door and enjoy the blessed solitude until she remembered that she had asked Peter to stop by to pick up a file. How am I going to explain this to him, she wondered as she pushed herself up and headed towards the door. She plastered a fake smile on her face as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

"Hey," Peter's wide smile faded into concern as he took in Olivia's wild eyes and the blood dripping steadily from her hands. He pushed past her to look around her apartment, expecting to see an intruder unconscious on the floor or something to that effect. "What the hell happened here?"

"I broke a glass," Olivia gestured feebly towards the kitchen.

"And you thought you'd use your hands to make sure you got all the glass off the floor?" Peter regretted his sarcasm as soon as he saw the look of hurt on Olivia's face.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, "I just don't like to see you hurt. Let's get your hands cleaned up and bandaged."

Peter took Olivia's wrist and guided her gently towards the bathroom. The fact that she followed him feebly without any protest made him even more concerned about her. It took more than a broken glass to rattle Special Agent Olivia Dunham. Clearly something was very wrong here and he was damned if he would leave without finding out what it was.

Olivia stood numbly as Peter tended to her hands. The only time she spoke was to direct him to the first aid kit, which he spread out on her bathroom counter. He on the other hand kept up a steady stream of chatter, talking to her in a low voice about Walter's latest food crazes, as if she was a wild animal that could bolt any moment. Peter picked several small shards of glass out of her wounds, cleaned them and wrapped her palms in bandages, after determining that none of the cuts were deep enough to require stitches.

Peter wanted to park her on the sofa while he finished clearing the kitchen of any broken glass, but she refused to stay put, frightened that if she let Peter out of her sight, John would return. Peter found a dustpan and a brush and swept the floor with it. He had intended to simply tip everything into the bin, when he spotted the plastic container on the counter. His eyes widened when he saw the evidence of countless broken things and he knew that something was very wrong with Olivia.

"Liv," he said gently and watched as the expressionless mask she had adopted cracked at the sight of him pointing towards the shards of glass.

"He keeps appearing, Peter, and he scares me and I drop things," her words were rushed, as if she had been holding the confession in her for too long. "John is here all the time, he haunts my dreams and my waking hours and he won't leave me alone. I feel like I'm losing my mind and I just want him to stop."

Peter saw tears in Olivia's eyes and he approached her slowly, taking her bandaged hand into his and leading her towards the sofa. He sat down first and then pulled her to his lap, so that he could cradle her in his arms.

"Please make him stop," Olivia clung to Peter like he was the only thing tethering her to her sanity.

"Shh Olivia, I won't let him hurt you," he tightened his arms around her.

From the darkness of Olivia's bedroom, John Scott watched as Olivia buried her face in Peter's shoulder and began to sob.


End file.
